


This Used To Be My Playground.

by dollylux



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Homesickness, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:10:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux





	This Used To Be My Playground.

Fernando decided that maybe it was for the best that he hadn't traveled to Madrid for the Atlético match. He hadn't been back in such a long time, hadn't gone back when he had been in the capital after winning the euros. It would have been too strange, such a twist on his heart in such a blindly happy time.

His last time on the Atléti pitch had been a thing of quiet reflection, of absolute stillness. He had asked a favor of the men in charge of maintaining the Vicente Calderón and they had let him in and left him there alone with all the lights up one warm summer evening. Everyone at Atlético trusted Fernando. They loved him.

Fernando walked out onto that green grass for what felt like for all the world the last time. although he wasn't in his kit, he felt the weight on his heart, the rush of blood, the instinctive need to save a sinking ship. Fernando had been the captain of the ship, and he was tired of keeping everyone afloat. Sometimes even captains need to be relieved.

He had stared around at every meter of the stadium, all of as quiet as a tomb for him, the ghost of cheers and cries and songs echoing still somehow, resonating. Goosebumps spread over his arms. He already felt haunted.

He sat down in the middle of the pitch and wept. He still couldn't shake the feeling that he was letting everyone down, that the whole club had depended on him, had had faith in him to somehow always pull them out, to always save them, to pull some magic out of that golden head of his and bring them a heroic win, an epic goal, redemption. And he had failed them.

Fernando was tired of having his heart broken. He was tired of breaking hearts. He knew that if he would have stayed at Atlético, it would have eventually killed him, broken his spirit. Even warriors need to know that their fights aren't all in vain.

He had to leave the city, his city. He had to leave every single thing he knew and loved behind, had to uproot his feet and make himself a new home somewhere far away, where enough people didn't know him, perhaps, didn't expect miracles from him. He was alright with having to earn respect again, to earn trust, to earn praise. He craved it, craved a clean slate. He wanted to be a part of a team that he depended on as much as he depended on him. He wanted away from that captain's armband that seemed to get tighter and tighter as each game wore on. By his last game, he almost couldn't breathe. His name suffocated him, his stats, his legend.

But even as he sat in his apartment in Liverpool, worlds and hours away from Madrid, he felt the pull of the city, felt the blood coursing in his veins to a rhythm that wasn't English at all, that felt like the pulse of home. He knew he would return one day, knew that he couldn't stay away forever. The thought comforted him sometimes late at night when he felt too homesick to sleep. No one knew of those moments but him.

He smiled out at the River Mersey from his balcony, the sleeping sounds of the city lulling but still unfamiliar. He heard a voice in his mind, a voice with just enough depth to soothe him no matter what was going on around him, a voice that he missed so much his eyes glassed over. He saw Sergio in his mind's eye so clearly, that full mouth, lips as soft as pillows tugged up into an adoring smirk, eyes so bright they glittered, hair lifting in sharp changes in the breeze, saw him in the summer night, _their_ summer, in _their city_ , drunk on sangria and traipsing the streets of Madrid like they had the key to her every door in their pockets.

Sergio had turned to Fernando and caught him moving to a strain of music caught in the air, a lazy, spicy beat that made Fernando arch his back just so, made him twist and roll his hips in an alluring dance. Sergio had turned to him and pressed up close, matching the beat in Fernando's hips with his own, their mouths tangy with citrus and alcohol. Sergio had whispered across Fernando's mouth a sentence that Fernando had tucked in his pocket and taken back with him to England.

_"They can take my boy out of Spain, but they can't take Spain out of my boy."_


End file.
